The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,81

many war babies.

I turn over and gasp as my poor abused breast rubs against the mattress. There’s a part of me, a tiny, vindictive part that quite wants to see Denis beaten to a pulp for what he’s done, but I swallow that down. It’s not kind to want such a thing, and I always try to be kind. The world needs more of it, not less.

I don’t always succeed, but I try.

Liza. What will happen to her? I can’t stand her, I have to say, but I don’t want her hurt or killed, and most certainly not while she’s carrying a child. If Konstantin killed her right now, I don’t think I could bear it. Not only would the death of a pregnant woman haunt me forever, but it would kill any feelings I have for him.

I couldn’t love a man who did that to a woman. Wait… Love? I don’t love him. I laugh at the thought, but it dies on my lips. Maybe I do, in some sick way. I certainly crave him.

Another shiver wracks me. I can’t sleep. I can’t even bear lying here alone, in the dark. I’m scared. And I’m so damn lonely. I miss my friends and my grandparents.

Not even thinking, I simply react. I get out of bed, wearing a long t-shirt nightdress that was part of the latest haul of clothes to come my way, and pad out of the room.

I head down the corridor to the room I know houses Konstantin.

I’m like a silent ghost. A needy, pathetic ghoul, craving the comfort of the living, even if the man I seek is the one responsible for this purgatory I live in.

The very man who created the loneliness and despair I feel right now is the one I’m gravitating to. And if that doesn’t make me fucked up, I don’t know what does.

I reach his door, and for a long while simply stand there, unsure, scared, desperate. Needy for a kind word, a comforting touch, some human warmth.

My hand reaches out and turns the handle, my breath held. I half expect it to be locked, but it isn’t.

The door opens without a sound, and I tiptoe into the room.

The curtains are open, and soft moonlight highlights the space, casting everything in an ethereal silver glow. It’s almost otherworldly, which suits me because I can fool myself that this insane moment doesn’t count. I’m not really crawling into the arms of my captor. I haven’t become such a pathetic wretch that any port in a storm will do. No, it’s not really me. None of this is real, it’s simply some strange dream-like interlude.

I stare at the big, bulky form under the sheet on the bed. He’s got one arm raised above his head, and his head is turned in the opposite direction. His other arm is out of the sheet, and even in this light I can see it’s tan against the pale cotton.

Walking as silently as I can, I approach the bed and gaze down at him.

He’s beautiful.

I sit on the floor, cross legged, and simply watch him. His breathing is deep and regular, his face more severe in repose, and it was severe enough before. His lashes are thick and dark, and it should be a crime for any man to own such decadence.

They’re the sort of lashes women pay big money to get from beauty salons or cosmetic companies who promise the earth. He owns them naturally. His bone structure is flawless too. He doesn’t have the beauty of someone like Vasily, who looks like a model. No one would ever think Konstantin a model. He’s far too big, too masculine, too harsh for that, but his beauty is there, in the dips and planes of his face. I like the way his harsh mouth softens in sleep, but his cheeks hollow more, giving him a leaner appearance. I could watch him all night, but that would be too weird, even for me.

I sigh and push myself up to my feet, and the next moment, I find myself up against the wall in a chokehold, a gun against my head.

I can’t breathe. I also can’t think. It happened so fast. How did he move so quickly? Where did the gun come from?

“Christ, Cassie, what the fuck?” Konstantin lets go of me immediately and steps back, making the gun safe, and places it under the pillow next to the one he was asleep on. So that’s where it came